


Odd Man Out

by Limey



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Casual sexual assault in the style of a 70s comedy, Crack, Fluff and Humor, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Look the canon is just not very politically correct OK, M/M, Multi, No Homo, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25865551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limey/pseuds/Limey
Summary: Kim learns he is the only member of Precinct 41 whom Harry has not kissed.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 120





	Odd Man Out

**Author's Note:**

> A silly idea I had and ran with. Alternative title: Harry Snogs Precinct 41. With thanks to [Wiebelwiebel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiebelwiebel/pseuds/Wiebelwiebel) for beta and sense-checking!

It’s the slowest week on record in Precinct 41. A stabbing, a mugging, and a gang territory scuffle, and shockingly, all of it is cleaned up - with all perpetrators in custody - by the very next day.

Kim spends his morning typing up his report on the stabbing. It wasn’t a particularly interesting stabbing, just a drug deal gone wrong. Unfortunately, it did make for a ruckus questioning the involved parties, which is why he now has an extended amount of notes to contend with.

The lack of fresh cases is unprecedented. As a result of the unexpected peace, Precinct 41’s C-Wing is full of idle cops, engaging in idle gossip. Some officers join in from their desks, others have visitors perched on the edge to form a very rough circle. Kim ignores them. He’s not one to get involved in who’s got a new girl, who got blackout drunk at the weekend, who bought new shoes. He’ll speak when spoken to, and only socialise the required amount to have good relationships with his colleagues. He prefers to focus on his work.

However, it’s a challenge to remain focused with all the noise around him. The usual small-talk has already run dry, moving the officers onto less-than-office-appropriate topics. Kim tunes them out to the best of his ability. Nothing, he thinks, can shock him anymore since working juvie.

“... you’re shitting me. He’s actually off the sauce? For good?” The voice is skeptical, but also full of wonder. Kim is about to ignore it, but Chester McLaine speaks, and makes it clear who is the current focal point of gossip.

“Yeah, Sober Cop’s actually sober. Most of the time anyway. We went out last Friday and he stuck to soda water. It was fucking creepy.”

Chester takes a drag of his cigarette, and hums as he thinks to add, “He still does all that weird shit, though. Talking to coffee cups, seeing things in walls, muttering about the end of the world. But hey, he turns up to work fully-dressed and without all the screaming. Gotta enjoy it while it lasts, right?”

Mack Torson speaks next, affable, but possessing that power to rein Chester’s cutting tongue in that way no one else has. “Aw, lay off. He seems to be really trying this time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Kim says nothing. He’s gotten to know C-Wing well through quiet observation, and he knows that the more caustic McClaine’s insults are, the better friends you are with him.

“But - shit. It's been, what, two months? We’re gonna need a new name for him at this rate.” McClaine smirks.

“If he’s not drinking, where the fuck is he, then?” Kim recognises the voice as Fischer’s without looking up from his notes. 

“Hell should I know? Jean’s not here, and his car isn’t either, so he’s probably keeping Mullen out of trouble.” McClaine shrugs.

“He actually let him in his car? After how he totalled the other one?”

“Well shit, he’s not letting him _drive_ it, Blau.”

Blau lets out an irritated grunt. “Still. We’d be a complete set if they were actually here. Did they get a case?”

“Nope. Checked in with Oldboy earlier. It’s fuckin’ eerie, not having something going on.”

“Don’t get too comfortable; Pryce is digging out the cold case files,” McCoy calls from his desk.

Blau frowns. “If they don’t have a case, what are they up to?”

“What, Blau, you picturin’ them making out in the backseat or something?” 

“Fuck you, McClaine,” Blau shoots back, with good-natured annoyance. “It’s usually bad news when Lieutenant Du Bois isn’t here by noon.”

A short silence falls upon the assembly.

Kim can read multitudes into that pause. He knows that the rest of the precinct has known a different version of Harry Du Bois. It makes him curious enough to keep an ear open to their conversation.

He likes the Lieutenant, he can’t help it. He’s not like any other man he’s ever met, and Kim finds himself quietly fascinated with him. He knows his curiosity isn’t purely professional, but he’s professional enough not to look into that too closely.

Kim is determined to be a friend as well as a colleague. With Harry only regaining his memory in fits and spurts - in theoreticals, rather than actual memory - Kim finds himself wanting to learn who Harry _was_ in the past, so that he can help support him in the present.

He doesn’t blame the other members of Precinct 41 for maintaining their vigilance as Harry pieces his life back together. They’ve all been burned, one way or another, by Harry’s history.

Yet they are all still fond of him. It doesn’t surprise him - the RCM are family, even the screw-ups amongst them. Their loyalty has been tested, but its loyalty nonetheless.

“Hey, Nick. Didn’t _you_ make out in the backseat with him?” Torson calls out, and low sniggering fills the station.

“He needed _someone_ back there to keep him upright. I did my duty by taking one for the team,” Lieutenant Feuerbach says blandly, not denying it, but not offering any cracks for McClaine or Torson to dig into.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re such a philanthropist.” McClaine tries, anyway.

“ _Taking one for the team_ ,” Torson snorts. “Like we all haven’t at some point!”

“Except for golden boy Kitsuragi, here,” McClaine says.

Kim can feel the eyes of the station on him, and looks up from his notes reluctantly. 

McClaine has a nickname for everybody, and he had accepted he was likely going to get assigned a moniker at some point. If the best McClaine can come up with is based on his work ethic, then he’ll take it. It’s better than Kimball.

He’s not interested in being dragged into this conversation as a participant. Harry doesn’t need him to rise to his defense. But he is not going to join in on this little haranguing session, either.

“I enjoy working with Lieutenant Du Bois,” he says, simply.

He expected to earn some muttering and low-key derision for not playing along, but the laughter that explodes across the room is open and jubilant.

“Oh, god, my sides,” McClaine gasps, waving at his partner to try and explain.

Torson is still chuckling, but at least has his voice. “No, I can’t. Someone else!”

Lieutenant McCoy lets out a disgusted sigh, sets down his coffee cup hard, and speaks, voice ringing across the room to be heard clearly to anyone by Kim’s desk. “Lieutenant, it’s not a metaphor. Pretty much everyone in C-Wing, at some point, has had the misfortune of Lieutenant Du Bois mashing his face into theirs.”

Kim is silent.

The room looks at him expectantly. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. And his composure. And decide what to say.

“... Everyone?” He finally manages.

“Eh… I think Peters got away with it,” Torson offers.

“Nah, Mack, he didn’t. Don’t you remember? He fucking cornered him at the farewell party, sucked half his face off in front of the bar,” McClaine answers. “He even told me he’d been saving it for the occasion.”

“I missed that! Ha, no wonder Peters looked so fucked off when I saw him.”

“Yeah. Oh, don’t worry, Peters was a prick, he deserved it,” McClaine informed Kim, who hadn’t quite concealed his wide-eyed shock in time.

Kim carefully schools his features back to neutrality. He’s not so foolish to think this is a sign of open mindedness. “The Lieutenant used to do this as... some form of punishment?”

“Fuck if I know,” McClaine laughs. “Who really knows what goes on in that crazy head of his? I don’t think he knows, either. Half the time, I reckon it’s just impulse. That’s how he got me, anyway. He just came up to me near the end of work one day, gave me a big, wavery, high-as-all-fuck smile, and - blam!” McClaine makes an exaggerated, full-body just-been-punched-in-the-face recoil. He shakes his head, but there’s a fond smile there. “You really don’t forget something like that.”

“God knows I’ve tried, but there’s not enough booze on the planet,” Fischer laments from the other side of the room. “The only thing that helped was finding out I didn’t suffer alone.”

“Yeah, therapy hours, that’s what this is.” Torson grins.

“Fuck, I still remember his tongue,” Fischer groans, and the room laughs again.

Kim blinks. Everyone in this room apart from him knows what Harry Du Bois’ mouth feels like. He’s not sure how he feels about this.

“You lucky boy, Sunny,” McClaine teases, oblivious to Kim’s inner turmoil. “I only got the whiskery end. Musta thought you were cute.”

“Hey, Chester, is it true that’s why Guillaume Bevy quit?” Williams pipes up into the chuckling, clearly unable to suppress the urge to ask any longer.

“Eh, we’d have to ask someone in his squad about that, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Shame none of them are here right now -”

“No, Judit’s here,” Mack counters.

Kim spies her out of the corner of his eye: she’s listening, but pointedly still reading a report on her desk. Every tense angle of her body is screaming to keep her out of it.

It’s obvious enough that while Sergeant Torson misses it entirely, everyone else talks as if he hadn’t spoken. “Someone who was in the squad when Guillaume was still here, which means Jean and Trant, neither of whom are here right now. Sorry, Williams.”

Williams makes a face and then shrugs. “Seems unlikely he got _everybody_.”

“Well, shyeah, Pryce was off-limits. Even Harry-boy’s not that fucking suicidal.”

“Everyone else same rank and below has been fair game,” Fischer says, darkly.

“Yeah, it nearly got bloody awkward with Tillbrook,” McClaine informs Kim sagely, clearly enjoying orchestrating this little drama. “He's got such a baby-face. If we didn't know he was legal…”

“Hey, don't make it sound like he’s some kind of pred,” McCoy snaps. “I'll be the first to say there’s a lot wrong with Du Bois, but he didn’t single Tillbrook out.” He turns to Kim again, explaining, “Harry was utterly wasted and sleeping it off in one of the interview rooms. Well, Tillbrook leaned in to try and wake him up gently, and...”

Kim nods, deciding not to comment.

“Yeah, Tillbrook’s not _that_ pretty,” Chester agrees, ignoring an indignant “hey!” from somewhere behind him. “So who’s not yet confessed - or anyone other than Lieutenant Kitsuragi here not had the, uh, pleasure?”

There’s a thoughtful pause.

“Well, there’s…” Mollins clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “When Joseph was still here, I mean…”

The mood of the room lowers a few degrees immediately. Kim knows why. The 57th has lost good officers, but the 41st has the greater death toll. By all accounts, Officer Mills was not the 41st’s greatest example - but he was still one of them.

“Yeah,” Torson says, gruffly. “I guess we’ll never know about - ”

“I know.”

Judit’s voice is quiet, but distinctive, and it slices through the air as she looks wearily at her fellow officers.

“When Officer Mills was asked to transfer his case. The hookah parlour one,” she says. “I was with Mills at the time.” She pauses, eyes downcast. “He... wasn’t happy about it.”

Kim has come to understand that Officer Minot is quiet, patient, and often understated. 

He reads that Joseph Mills was likely being a _colossal asshole_.

“Harry came over to his desk to take the case file from him. And he’s… well. A little drunk. Joseph gave him the dirtiest look imaginable, taunts him that he’s not going to solve it any quicker than he has… Joseph being Joseph.”

Judit’s mouth ticks up into a slight smile. “I think maybe Harry caught that I was fed up, but I’m not sure - anyway, one moment Joseph has his mouth open to continue ranting, and the next…”

The room erupts, and the last of Judit’s words are drowned out by whooping and laughing, someone yelling out “I bet that shut him up!”

Kim catches Judit’s eye, and gives her a slight nod. The introverts of Precinct 41 have to stick together.

“Hey!” Chester realises something, and rounds on Judit. “Jude! So what’s your story? Did Harry get you?”

Judit looks embarrassed. Kim waits - he knows better than to intervene. Judit can absolutely square up to her colleagues, given a moment to regain her composure.

“He didn’t ‘get me’,” she says, finally. Her voice is still soft, but now loud enough to be heard, and it doesn’t shake, her face set and determined, despite the obvious flush on her cheekbones. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh-ho, so there _is_ a story. Go on Jude!”

“Yeah, c’mon, Minot, you gotta tell!”

Judit looks around, and sees she is outgunned on all sides. She takes a deep breath and stands up to better address her audience. 

“At the end-of-year party, just after I joined Harry’s team… he was giving me advice. It was… actually very good. Or it started out that way. But by the time he had gone through a bottle or two…” She half-smiles. “He’d been saying we hoped we would be friends - that he was glad to have me on his team, that I had potential, and then out of nowhere - he kissed me.” 

Judit pauses to take a breath. The room is listening intently. “Then he suddenly pulled back and apologised. He looked very confused. Said he was sorry because I would find a lovely man some day. I reminded him that I’m married, and he agreed, and said he still stood by that statement - and that he hadn’t meant to do that, and something about his necktie suggested it.”

“Sounds like Captain Sober alright,” McClaine says, shaking his head theatrically. “Making a mess of things, saying sorry like it makes it alright…”

“It wasn’t a mess,” Judit says, calmly. “He was surprisingly gentlemanly about it.”

Kim is proud of her, because he knows exactly what comes next, and it does: the catcalling and “Judit’s got a boyfriend!” and other lewd comments sail her way. She takes it in her stride, shakes her head, and returns to her work.

Much like he, himself, should be doing, but he’s too interested in hearing more about this absurdity.

“Eh, I wouldn’t blame her,” Torson chuckles. “He’s not actually a bad kisser.”

There’s a moment where all eyes swivel onto Torson, who stares back, and spreads his broad arms wide. “What? No homo, but he is!”

“Fuck’s sake, Mack.” Chester is bent double, shaking with silent laughter.

“You’ve had worse, don’t lie. Remember that Celine chick you dated -”

Before Torson can reveal more on the subject of Chester’s past inferior dating life, the outer doors creak and steps are heard on the worn floor, warning that C-Wing is about to have a visitor - or perhaps the return of its missing two officers.

But it’s Trant that enters the room, looking around at the assembled officers. His face is alight with amusement. “Hello! Is there a party going on?”

“Fuck! Trant!” McClaine exclaims, suddenly, as if remembering something.

“Er…” Trant freezes in the doorway. “Yes…?”

“Yeah! We haven’t asked him yet!” Mollins is enthused.

“Trant’s a consultant,” McCoy says warningly, “you can’t just ask him if -”

“ - have you kissed Harry,” McClaine asks, bluntly.

Trant’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Yes.”

Trant makes to move for his desk, but there’s an immediate outcry from the officers who can’t leave that hanging.

“When?”

“How?”

Trant shrugs. “Oh, ages ago. He asked nicely.”

The room is agape.

“Wait. _Wait_. He asked if he could? And you said yes?”

“Why not? I couldn’t think of a good reason not to, and I rarely turn down a chance to expand my horizons,” Trant answers, cheerfully. “They say that one of the old tribes of Ikeira used to kiss their fellow warriors as a method of bringing social cohesion and well-being when preparing for war. Such positive mood-lifting effects could, in fact, have directly contributed to their success in the pre-Revocholian -”

“You let him kiss you?” Torson still hasn’t quite grasped the idea. In fairness, Kim thinks he is also struggling with this new reality. “Like - on the lips, and everything?”

Trant looks confused, as if anyone would make out with their departmental lead if asked. “Yes?”

“Was he high?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Were _you_ high?”

“Very!” Trant answers brightly. “I had just had my most recent paper on countering pale-transient anomic aphasia taken into consideration for publication at Vredefort. Harry asked me why I had such a spring in my step, and we got talking - in fact, Harry himself had several ideas, which really -”

“How was it?” McClaine interrupts, because everyone in the room is thinking it. Including Kim, as much as he’s trying not to.

“Pleasant,” Trant answers, sincerely. “It was quite different to my previous experiences, what with the moustache, his height, and bulk. Harry certainly knows what he’s doing. I’m not moved to repeat the experience, but it was both educational and enjoyable.”

Kim decides his day would have been that much easier for not knowing this, as the room explodes once more into a racket of disbelieving noises, impressed-and-awestruck gasps, and outright gossip as Trant strides casually towards the sanctity of his desk. Being a member of the task force - albeit part-time - he is seated not too far from Kim.

Trant turns his kilowatt smile onto Kim as he reaches his chair. Clearly, he is immune to machismo commentary and ruminations on his sexuality - or he simply doesn’t care what the RCM thinks. “Lieutenant, good to see you,” he greets, eyes scanning the nearby two empty desks. “Is Jean not here yet?”

Kim is frustrated he cannot return to his report, but also relieved for the break from learning far more than he ever wanted to learn about Harry’s kissing skills. 

… Second-hand, at least.

“No, I haven’t seen him yet today,” Kim replies, truthfully. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes,” Trant says breezily, shrugging off his coat and attending to his briefcase. “But I can wait. In the meantime, I have the most _fascinating_ article to read on stressor-based decision-making from the École Supérieure that a friend recommended to me.”

Kim sees the sheaf of papers that the consultant pulls from his briefcase: at a glance, at least eighty pages. Given the risk that Trant might feel the urge to share, Kim suddenly decides that he can cope with the rest of the station’s bantering.

“Please excuse me,” he says, getting up, taking his half-full coffee mug on the pretext of getting a refill.

He marches through the circle of his colleagues, who are still boisterously debating “who had it worse” being kissed by Harry. He’s actually a little annoyed, he admits. He respects the Lieutenant. He appreciates that this is all in the name of camaraderie, that C-Wing can look back on Harry’s less-than-sober exploits and laugh, but he doesn’t _like_ it.

He glowers at the coffee pot while making himself a fresh cup. It’s like listening to schoolboys egging each other on in the playground.

He is _not_ , he tells himself, feeling petty jealousy.

“... and I told him he couldn’t drive fucked up like that and to give me his fucking keys, and then suddenly I have a whole faceful of him…”

“Not nearly as bad as when he was offered promotion again - just straight-out grabbed me as soon as he bounded outta Pryce’s office -”

“In the locker room, high-as-fuck, on the cheek,” Mollins recites drolly, making Kim think of a certain Dick Mullen themed board game he had once been forced to play.

“He must have recycled the locker room - caught him planting a big sloppy one on Vicquemare in there,” Fischer says, slyly.

“You never told me that!” Williams rounds on his partner, aghast.

“I didn’t know at the time he made a habit of it, so I kept my mouth shut!” Fischer retorts. “Jean didn’t see me, so I backed out the room! I wasn’t about to piss him off.”

“Damn right you don’t want to piss off Vicquemare...”

Kim finishes pouring his cup, and elects to linger at the brew station for the first few sips, rather than accidentally walk into the line of conversational fire on the way back to his desk.

“... Harry was pissed I ate the last lemon drop. Like, really pissed. I thought, so what’s he gonna do about it, cry? Didn’t fucking expect him to claim it directly outta my mouth…””

“I borrowed his chapstick off his desk. Yeah, dumbest idea I ever had, in retrospect. I denied it, didn’t realise he’d be so quick to, uh, prove my guilt…”

“You’re such a dumbfuck.”

“Fuck you, my lips get dry in winter!”

“Fuck, is that you, Torson?” growls a muffled voice from the door, and the room suddenly stops talking, because that means -

Satellite-officer Vicquemare enters, and pauses to scowl at his fellow officers who are lounging around before making a beeline for his desk. “Everybody’s working hard, I see.”

In his wake, the door doesn’t quite close, and inevitably, Lieutenant double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois steps in afterwards. He also stops the way Jean did, blinking as he regards the group.

Kim wonders if the others see what he sees. Harry still eschews the official RCM uniform in favour of his own unique style, except now the white shirt is crisp, clean, and has seen an iron; the tie and pants are no longer a slouchy mockery of business attire. The flamboyantly lime-green shoes still remain, but set against the backdrop of composure that the Lieutenant now displays, it feels more like a cheeky wink, a fuck-you to social norms rather than having forgotten to take them off from a party the night before.

Eyes bright and focussed, a recent visit to the barber’s, his skin a healthier palette of colours - he looks _good_. Kim admits his own bias to himself in that regard, but this is a Harry Du Bois who, despite everything, is doing well. Kim can’t help but feel quietly proud of him.

Kim also sees Harry’s eyes reading the room, and wonders whether he’s guessed that he’s been the hot topic for the past half-hour or so.

“I expect everyone’s had a lot to catch up on,” Harry answers Jean’s comment. After a further moment of study, he adds casually, “but I wouldn’t expect anyone to kiss and tell.”

Kim tries not to smirk into his coffee. He has a feeling that Harry knows, in that uncanny way that he does.

“So where’ve you two been?” Torson asks.

“Jamrock library. Jean and I have been working on a theory based on some of B-Wing’s cold case files, needed to check our thinking.”

Jean snorts. “You mean check _your_ insane theory. I just provided transport.”

“You were indispensable to the creative process, Jean.”

“Oh, fuck off, Harry, don’t give me that bullshit.” Kim has learned to read between the shades of Jean’s grumpy tones, and without looking, knows that he’s smiling.

Harry’s bright eyes catch sight of Kim’s empty desk, and his abandoned report, and Kim is unsurprised that Harry looks around and spies him where he stands. The orange bomber jacket stands out that way.

When Harry looks at him and meets his eye, Kim wonders if he sees the things that the others - thankfully - do not see. 

“Hey, Kim. Is there any coffee left?” Harry calls out, hopefully, striding his way over to see for himself.

It’s fortunate timing, because it means Harry avoids the epicentre of the explosion in the seconds that follow.

“I hope you’ve not been waiting long,” Jean says brusquely, as he pulls his chair over to Trant’s desk. “Inhospitable bastards didn’t make _you_ coffee, I see.”

“Oh, I was made to feel very welcome,” Trant says gaily, which means no one expects his follow-on: “I was included in the group discussion. Everyone was _most_ enthused to discuss how, where, and when they engaged in kissing Lieutenant Du Bois.”

Jean’s outraged shout and slam of his papers to his desk has C-Wing scrambling to make their excuses, defenses, justifications, and accusations towards each other. Blau makes a bid for the nearest door, and gets an extra dressing-down for the attempt. Jean lets out what can only be some deeply repressed feelings on the matter in catharsis, with some incredibly choice language for his fellow officers.

Kim is very glad to be standing on the opposite side of the room, but throws a sidelong glance at Harry, concerned how he might be taking this. Not everyone enjoys being reminded of who they were.

But Harry looks composed enough as he pours himself a coffee, leaning up against the counter next to Kim. He catches his eye sidelong, and winks. Kim feels immediately better, and they both quietly drink coffee and watch the chaos unfold.

Jean eventually finishes venting his spleen at those nearest to him, and finally wheels to face Harry.

“I can’t believe it, shitkid. How do you fuck up the entire unit when you’re not even here?!” Jean yells at him.

Kim sees Harry grin unrepentantly into his coffee.

Trant gets up and sets a hand on Jean’s shoulder to get his attention. His voice is distinct enough that it cuts through the din, even while calmly addressing Jean as if he hadn’t just dropped a casual bombshell. “I brought those files, by the by - I’ve highlighted the areas I think you’ll find of interest, and added some index cards so that we can refer back to the original case files -”

“Yeah. Fine. Let’s find a meeting room so we can have some fucking peace,” Jean snaps, picking up his briefcase and marches across the room to the nearest one, giving everyone a good glare enroute, and Harry an extra dark one for good measure. Trant follows in Jean’s wake, a merry twinkle in his eye. Kim suspects the Special Consultant is rather enjoying himself. He’s more like an anthropologist of the RCM than its ancillary employee.

As the door to the nearby interview room closes, Kim realises what’s going to happen a split second too late as McClaine sizes up both he and Harry standing next to each other.

“Right,” McClaine exhales, eyeing the closed door with a calculating look. “While Jean and that massive stick in his ass isn’t here...”

It’s the voice of a man who has hatched an evil plan.

“Until you showed up Harry, we’d just been discussing we didn’t have a _full house_ ,” McClaine says, with a conspiratorial grin at everyone else in the room, who immediately know that’s their cue to join in.

Without Jean’s authority, C-Wing soon rounds on Kim and Harry. Leering faces and low chuckles fill the room.

Kim’s spent enough years in juvie to know what the start of a hazing ritual looks like. He now wholly regrets his idea to get coffee: it puts him and Harry at the back of the room, furthest from the door. There’s no casually sidling out or walking back to his desk without being considered a bad sport. Or a coward.

It’s going to happen, he just doesn’t know _how_ it’s going to happen.

“Yeah, Mullen,” Mack Torson grins. “You’ve been holdin’ out on our transfer.”

“Kim?” Harry automatically turns his head to look at him, and Kim fights to stare straight ahead, and not meet his eye.

He absolutely can do this, there’s no question. It won’t be the worst hazing he’s ever been put through. It won’t hurt. 

Not on the outside, anyway.

He admits he is fond of the detective, perhaps more than he should be. And sometimes he wonders at what if. Damnable hope getting in the way of reason, he thinks, but sometimes, it feels like there is something between them: small, fragile, but worth nurturing.

Harry is a human can-opener. Kim _knows_ he is being gently prised open. Harry’s been so gentle that he barely notices it happening, and worse, he finds he doesn’t mind. He’s never been capable of opening up to others himself. He’s actually on some level curious what Harry will make of what he finds. What he might decide to do.

Now, for both their sakes, he has to put up those walls again. He can't separate personal and professional in this. All their hard-won progress, undone in an instant.

It can’t be helped, but he still feels regret for what’s about to happen.

“Rude of you, not to skillshare with Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” Fischer remarks lightly, with a smirk.

“Yeah, it’s what Jean said - _inhospitable_.”

Harry looks politely confused. It’s an expression that every member of C-Wing has grown familiar with on his face after his return from Martinaise. Unfortunately, C-Wing is familiar enough with that face to know Harry is feigning it.

“Fair’s fair, you can’t leave him the odd man out. You gotta make up - and make out - with Kim.”

Harry snorts out a laugh, and sets down his cup to fold his arms in challenge.

“What, is Kitsuragi not good enough for you or something?”

“... No!” Harry’s eyes widen after blurting out the word, instantly realising his error in sounding so defensive. Kim’s insides squirm: he can’t help but feel a little flattered to be held so highly in the other man’s regard, and worryingly, it’s becoming common enough knowledge for Harry to be casually ribbed about it.

“So what’s the big deal?”

Kim can almost see the little conference going on in Harry’s brain in the pause that follows.

He can also see when it fails to reach a helpful conclusion, the frisson in Harry’s face as he tries to slide on an unconvincing smile, an unwelcome ghost of The Expression.

“Er, for one, I think Lieutenant Kitsuragi would kill me,” Harry tries.

Kim _could_ actually kill him for saying that. Now all eyes are on him.

“I do not care for this sort of juvenile game,” he says, as flat as he can, because it’s the only saving grace he can give himself. If he protests too much, he will be seen as easily offended; socially off-limits. He’s worked hard since joining the precinct to be accepted as one of them.

“Yeah, yeah, take it like a man, Kitsuragi.”

“Welcome to C-Wing, Lieutenant: accept your complimentary smooch from our leader, here.” 

“Hop to it Du Bois, just to shut this lot up,” McCoy calls out.

Kim turns, reluctantly, to face Harry. No way out but through it, and he squares his shoulders and shrugs in his best “let’s get this over” nonchalance.

Harry is standing next to him; they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder when drinking their coffee. Now they’re facing each other, standing in each other’s personal space in front of their peers.

Time slows down. Kim desperately hopes his ears are not broadcasting his discomfort. He prepares himself, and meets Harry’s eye.

He knew it would be difficult, but seeing the conflict in Harry’s expression makes it so much worse. _Damn it Harry, just get it over with, I can’t do this for both of us right now_.

Harry’s eyes flicker over his face. Kim doesn’t have the time to interpret the meaning: it could just be academic interest in seeing him up-close like this, noting the imperfections of his skin he wouldn’t normally see at professional distance; it could be assessing how he’s going to make his approach novel for the benefit of their audience, it could well be Harry is reading his very soul. He’s sure up this close, he might be showing signs of strain beyond mere unease.

He sees Harry’s eyes subtly widen. He’s seen _something_ ; his breath catches. His gaze meets Kim’s, and there’s something determined in the set of his jaw. It’s all taking place in less than a second, but Kim swears he can hear Harry doing some quick thinking.

Then Harry’s gaze sharpens in a flash of his green eyes, something relaxing in his expression. Kim knows that Harry has had an idea, but he has no clue what it will be.

Much to his astonishment, Harry takes a decisive step backwards. Kim tenses. Is he about to make a running leap at him for entertainment’s sake?

Harry’s eyes fix on his and hold his gaze as he moves with the grace of a dancer, an arm extended in a melodramatic arc to take Kim’s hand within his own. Kim is so surprised he doesn’t resist - and Harry pulls the hand towards him like something out of a period novel, bowing elegantly from the waist to press a bristly kiss to his knuckles.

Kim can’t hear words over the roar of blood in his ears. He’s dimly aware the room is making its complaints in groans and jeers, but it’s all tuned out as Harry continues to look at him.

This kiss is genuine affection. His stomach somersaults, a thrill made of fear and joy.

He’s forgotten how to breathe.

It’s only when Harry straightens up and smirks for the benefit of the crowd, Kim remembers the importance of oxygen.

“That was a cop-out, Du Bois!”

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi not your type?”

“Lame, Harry!”

“I fulfilled the requirement,” Harry quips back at the crowd, holding his composure.

“That wasn’t a real kiss,” Torson says sulkily.

Harry finally, _finally_ draws on that authority Kim knows he’s capable of wielding, and frowns. “I’d like to remind you that I invited Lieutenant Kitsuragi to join us,” Harry says sternly, “in order to rebuild the Major Crimes Unit and its reputation. I don’t want Kim regretting his decision to join us. We’re doing things differently, going forward. Enough.”

An abashed hush falls on the room. Someone under their breath goes, “oo-OO-ooh,” in the manner of all juveniles seeing someone caught by a teacher. Kim suspects McClaine.

The interview room door opens.

“The fuck was all that noise about?” Jean peers out and scowls at Harry.

“Nothing,” Harry says, far too innocently to be convincing.

“Yeah, right,” Jean growls, stepping out into the open, the better to square up to his partner and threaten, “if we’re still discussing where your goddamn mouth has been…”

The room holds its collective breath, because Harry has every right to rat them all out. In C-Wing, Harry is the fun parent. Jean is the disciplinarian.

“Not unless you want to volunteer _your_ story,” Harry says, still affecting innocence.

“No, I do not, fuck you very much,” Jean mutters, looking suddenly embarrassed.

It’s the break that everyone else needed, with the tables suddenly turned on Jean. Like sharks, Kim thinks: they smell blood.

“Fuck, are you blushing, Vic?”

“I said, _fuck you very much_ ,” Jean huffs, and stomps back into the interview room, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

Everyone looks at Harry.

“I take it you remember that one, Harry?” Feuerbach says, intrigued.

Harry nods. “I don’t remember a lot of things, but I remember that one,” he answers, but doesn’t let his expression give much away. Nor does he volunteer more information, Kim notes.

There’s a moment where Harry and the rest of C-Wing look at each other, and then Harry starts laughing. The rest of C-Wing joins in, suddenly aware of their own ridiculousness. Even Kim finds himself smiling.

“Fuck Harry... why’d you even start doing it in the first place?” 

Harry stops chortling long enough to frown, tapping his chin with one finger as he appears to give it serious consideration. “I don’t remember. I know it must have started before my last two - uh - _episodes_ , because I think at one point… it was muscle-memory…?”

He shrugs. He’s learning not to get so hung-up on the memories he’ll never get back. “But I know I had a reason behind every one.”

He pauses, for good drama. “And I think it comes down to that you’re all important to me, and I never was that good at acknowledging that aloud. I just love all of you assholes, very very much.”

Without fail everyone makes vomiting noises and swears, just as Kim knew they would.

The mood of the room shifts. The attention of the room leaves Harry and Kim in favour of chit-chat. Kim can finally relax. He’s in the clear, and he takes advantage to return to his desk. He doesn’t dare look back, but he’ll thank Harry later.

He doesn’t get the chance for most of the morning, as Harry is summoned into the interview room with Jean and Trant. Instead, he focuses on his report and completes it in a reasonable time, giving it a once-over. He’s just about finished when Harry emerges from the room talking animatedly. Jean and Trant are listening intently.

Kim smiles, watching them from out of the corner of his vision. Harry might be wildly eccentric and still grappling with learning the world anew, but he’s still a genius. He might still lead C-Wing to greatness yet.

Eventually, Harry comes over to his desk, alone. Kim isn’t surprised, but he is quietly nervous.

“Just checking you’re not actually regretting the transfer,” Harry greets, leaning against one corner.

Kim knows he’s joking, but the subtext is checking that things are alright, that his little performance earlier in the day did the trick.

“I’m not,” Kim reassures, with the hint of a dry smile.

He is capable of holding a conversation with the Lieutenant with very few words actually spoken aloud. He appreciates Harry’s discretion.

“Good.” There’s a pause. Harry looks across the desks, not quite meeting his eye as he speaks, “I, uh. Don’t have any plans to continue the tradition.”

“Good to know.” Kim gives nothing away. He has an inkling why Harry might be telling this, but hope is treacherous.

“I hope you don’t mind how I played it out. I figured you wouldn’t appreciate the attention.” He clears his throat, casually adding, “in front of the precinct.”

Kim feels his heart lurch in his chest. “Mm, indeed.” He takes the opening. It’s a calculated risk, as he repeats, slowly, “not in front of the precinct.”

Harry turns to look at him fully. His eyes fix on Kim’s with cautious optimism. Kim waits for the words he’s working up to.

“Perhaps we could meet up after work for dinner?”

Or at least, Kim manages to interpret that’s what Harry is trying to say, as he fumbles every word in the sentence as if falling down a set of stairs, the only word actually audible being, “dinner?”

It’s enough.

Kim fights a smile. “Sounds good, detective.”

“Good! That’s - yes. Good.” Harry’s face lights up, before he catches himself and makes it more befitting the workplace.

His smile is so genuine, it hurts Kim a little. 

He’s going to pay him back later with a kiss.


End file.
